Banana Feels
by Animegirl1129
Summary: In which Lassiter suffers a comical injury and Shawn is rather amused. Slash.


Banana Feels

_**Written in response to cottoncandy_bingo prompt: humor. A little sillier than my usual fics. Characters not mine, please enjoy! Comments are awesome.**_

* * *

"Damn it, Spencer! In no universe is this funny!" Lassiter curses, sending dagger-like glares at the stupid, phony, not-psychic lunatic currently crowding his personal space in the too small hospital room; they've even forced him into one of the useless hospital gown things, despite his threats to inflict bodily harm on anyone who dared to try.

Shawn does not seem to agree with his assessment of the situation, however, and is presently attempting to take the perfect picture of this unholy event so that he can snap-chat it to the entirety of the Santa Barbara Police Department. It is already his new facebook profile picture, and he suspects it has been tweeted to all of Shawn's twitter followers, as well. "On the contrary, Lassie," he says, as the flash blinds him yet again, "I'm not sure anything in the universe has ever been funnier - except for maybe Gus, or at least Gus's face."

If Lassiter had anything to throw at the idiot, he would most definitely have taken aim by now (and so help him if he ever gets his hands on Spencer's blasted phone...). "I broke my leg, Spencer! I am in the hospital and they won't let me leave. Stop laughing at me. This is not funny."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Shawn says, but the snickering suggests that he still does not understand anything the Detective just said to him. "But, you broke your leg after you slipped on a banana peel while you were chasing a suspect through a cafeteria. In terms of comical, that's up there with the 'anvil to the head' and the 'piano drop' on a list of comical injuries. Comical, in this instance, meaning that most people tend to think that they only happen in comics - so thanks for proving me right on that one. My Dad is going to be so pissed he didn't let me invest in ACME products back when I was 5."

"I didn't laugh at you when you got shot," he snarks back, bitterly.

"Well, there was nothing funny about that! I was shot and thrown in the back of a trunk and driven around all night and then nearly killed. Even you were worried about me. If I'd been shot in the ass or if I'd shot myself in the foot, or something, then it might have been slightly humorous - ooh! That! That is the only thing that could have made this better. If you'd broken your arm instead of your leg. Can you guess why?"

"Because then I wouldn't be able to strangle you when I climb out of this bed?"

"No! Because then I could have said something like 'I find this humerus!' Actually, I think that might be a t-shirt," Lassiter watches him google for this information, while he mumbles something about tibia's not being anywhere near as hilarious, and he comes up with an image of a bone overlaid with the aforementioned caption just seconds later. "Ordering!"

But then it happens.

Shawn makes the mistake of getting too close - something he has somehow managed to avoid thus far in his torturous visit - and Lassiter is quick to strike, despite the drugs in his system that leave his movements feeling sluggish and his mind feeling hazy. He gets a hand curled into the collar of Spencer's shirt and twists, until he's forced the spastic pseudo-psychic into staying still for _one second_.

"Now listen here," Lassiter growls at him, leaning in close, "you are going to stop laughing right now because I know you don't find this any funnier than I do." He's been around Shawn long enough to know that he's only this off the walls when he's been worried. So, he plucks the phone from Shawn's hands, and nods in self-satisfied relief when Spencer's mouth remains shut. "You are going to go find a doctor or a nurse or anyone in this place who can bring me the against-medical-advice forms or whatever I need to sign to get the hell out of here, you are going to find my clothes, and you are going to take me home, okay?"

Shawn swallows audibly and offers a compliant nod, so Lassiter dares to release his hold on the other man.

"One ticket out of here, coming right up," Shawn says, and he's quick to dart out the door without even an attempt to reclaim his phone.

Lassiter is left with a few moments of blissful silence (he uses this time to delete as many of the terrible pictures Shawn took as he can) in the wake of Shawn's craziness. It's not that he's not used to Shawn's fluctuating levels of insanity, but this had been atypical. Just as he finishes with the pictures, Chief Vick, O'Hara and McNab pop in (apparently Shawn made it to him first) to assure him that the suspect he'd been chasing, a kidnapper who liked to torture his victims before he killed them, had been apprehended without any additional issues.

Juliet's in the middle of asking him about his recovery - they all know there's no way Lassiter will actually follow the doctor's orders, no matter what they threaten him with - when Shawn reappears. He has a rather annoyed doctor in tow and he wastes no time in shooing the other's out of the room.

"Uh," Juliet starts, as she ignores Shawn's hand-waving motions. "You don't want us to stay?"

"I will call you later," he promises, knowing that if Shawn is back already, he must have talked someone into releasing him. Lassiter doesn't even care how he pulled it off, even if it likely involved some of his nonsensical superpowers.

"The AMA papers you asked for," the doctor says, glancing warily at Shawn as he hands the papers over. Lassiter is quick to scribble out his signature and trades the filled out papers for a couple of prescriptions and a pair of crutches before the doctor hastily takes his leave.

At Lassiter's raised eyebrow, Shawn simply explains, "Cheating on his wife. Also cheating on his girlfriend. And his boyfriend. And probably his taxes."

He chooses to ignore these claims and instead notes the bag of clothes that Shawn is holding, which will get him on step closer to being out of this hellish place. "My clothes?" he asks.

Shawn shakes his head, waving the bag back and forth and offers a sing-songy taunt of "Ah, not so fast, there, Lassie-face," that is coupled with a concerning grin.

"Now what?"

* * *

"Spencer, come on!" Lassiter complains, when 'just one more minute' has dragged out into twenty and the smell of permanent marker is starting to give him a contact high.

"Just... one more..." Shawn assures him, furiously scribbling at the cast on his leg. "There!"

Since he has not been allowed to see the no doubt horrendous work of 'art' that has been in progress for the last forty minutes, he braces himself for the worst. And, well, it could have been worse. There is a frighteningly realistic depiction of the incident that started all of this, complete with an oversized banana peel and what he can only assume is a caricaturized version of himself spinning through the air. While not amused, he sighs in defeat and wonders how soon he'll last before he cuts the cast off himself. Probably not long, he figures, and he knows he'll never make it the planned six weeks, so what's the harm?

"Not as bad as I was expecting," he admits, as he reclaims his leg from Spencer's marker-covered hands and props it up on the pillows at the end of his bed. Clad now in loose-fitting pajama pants (Shawn's leverage had consisted of the realization that the slacks he'd worn to work would never fit over the damned cast, and he had thus extracted the promise of free-reign on doodles in exchange for finding pants that would) and a well-worn academy t-shirt, and within the familiar walls of home, he's finally comfortable. Maybe even comfortable enough to consider letting the tired haze the pain meds have him in win out.

"I could keep going, if you want?" Shawn says, and he's not really sure if he's offering or threatening.

"Enough," Lassiter declares, before the dreaded marker can come uncapped again. "I need to get some rest," he admits, nodding to the other side of the bed where Shawn has spent more than a few nights now, "So, if you're staying, you're sleeping."

Shawn is surprisingly quick to give up on his drawing obsession, abandoning the mountain of colorful markers to claim the other side of the bed and Lassiter would swear that he could see the energy instantly drain out of Shawn the second he hit the mattress.

"Definitely staying," Shawn answers, flicking off the lamp on the bedside table that had illuminated his masterpiece. "Who else is going to make sure no other comical injuries befall you?" As usual, Shawn sprawls all over the bed, one arm tossed over Lassiter's chest - though he is careful about the cast - and they both settle in. "I'll be sure to check the chairs for thumbtacks and the trees for falling coconuts when I get up."

"Shut up, Spencer."


End file.
